I wish I’d had the wisdom to tell you back then none of this matters. Twenty years from now, we won’t remember these slights-- at least they won’t sting as they do. All that matters is this time we have. Not that I was in love: maybe I should have been. But you were my friend, and that was good; what we should have been back then. We were right at the time and place, at least when we were laughing or ringing in the new year. It was good to be with you—it was good to be myself. We counted days, because they were short, always. We didn’t know why—we thought because love would get away, we’d miss our chance. We didn’t know what would make us who we are. I missed it in a way. Please forgive me. I didn’t know. All things petty seemed larger than life, enduring. But now when I say your name, I think of only you, and Alice, and the Auld Lang Syne.